awakened no association. But he could hardly tell her that.
"I 'm thinking of San Diego."
"The back piazza, at my sister's? Oh, don't; it was too horrid. She has left now. I believe every one has left."
Sir Arthur Demesne drew out his watch with the air of a man who could take no part in these domestic reminiscences; he appeared to combine a generic self-possession with a degree of individual shyness. He said something about its being time they should go back to their seats, but Mrs. Headway paid no attention to the remark. Waterville wished her to linger: he felt in looking at her as if he had been looking at a charming picture. Her low-growing hair, with its fine dense undulations, was of a shade of blackness that has now become rare; her complexion had the bloom of a white flower; her profile, when she turned her head, was as pure and fine as the outline of a cameo.
"You know this is the first theatre," she said to Waterville, as if she wished to be sociable. "And this is Voltaire, the celebrated writer."
"I 'm devoted to the Comédie Française," Waterville answered, smiling.
"Dreadfully bad house; we did n't hear a word," said Sir Arthur.
"Ah, yes, the boxes!" murmured Waterville.
"I'm rather disappointed," Mrs. Headway went on. "But I want to see what becomes of that woman."
